Bilbo tugs his blanket around himself as tightly as possible, to no avail - he is freezing. He clenches his jaw but his teeth chatter on violently. Someone is bound to hear him if he carries on like this and that would just be mortifying. âOh donât worry about me; Iâll be just fine,â he had said. âSnug as a bug!â
âMaster Baggins.â Bilbo snaps his head up at the sound of Thorinâs booming voice. They lock eyes and Thorin jerks his chin just so, beckoning Bilbo over. Bilbo sighs and stands, wrapping the thin blanket around his shoulders before making his way over.
âAn orc could hear your teeth chattering from a mile away,â Thorin says. Bilbo opens his mouth in argument, but Thorin cuts him off. âA frozen burglar is of no use to us. Come here.â He lifts his own blankets and looks at Bilbo expectantly. Bilboâs mouth stays open in shock for another moment before the chattering gets so bad he has to snap his jaw shut again. âBesides, youâll slow us down in the morning if you stay up all night shivering.â
Bilbo nods his head in assent and crawls under the proffered blanket. Instantly, he is met with a wall of heat. Though thick, the blanket is small. As a result, Bilbo is pressed directly against the dwarfâs chest. Dwarves run hot, he thinks, absurdly. His teeth finally cease their chattering within a minute, though, and the rest of his body stops shivering a minute after that.
âBetter?â Thorin rumbles quietly. Bilbo feels the vibration of the question with his cheek and ear pressed against Thorinâs sternum.
âAh, yes - better! Much better. Thank you, Thorin.â
âGet some sleep, Master Baggins.â Bilbo drifts off to the steady rise and fall of Thorinâs chest and has the best night of sleep heâs had since he ran out of Bag End, contract fluttering in the breeze.
Balthasar had heard the rumors- that Castiel had been temporarily pulled out of the field and sent Upstairs, that he had been getting a little too friendly with the humans in his charge. Balthasar did not know much else; he had been steering clear of Earth and preparing for battle with the rest of the garrison. The Winchesters were Castielâs mission - not his jurisdiction. He didnât think the rumors were worth a second thought.
âŚAnd then Castiel rebelled. Threw the metaphorical wrench that derailed Fate and Prophecy and the Apocalypse. Castiel defied Heaven. Cassie must have been getting awfully close to at least one of those humans, Balthasar had thought. He had always had some level of appreciation for Earth and its delights. If Castiel had rebelled just to keep the planet spinning, Balthasar could understand. It seemed to be much more than that, though. Angels werenât designed to feel love for anything but the Father and His creation. And yet. It was so clear to Balthasar that Castielâs defiance stemmed from love. So when Raphael attempted to take over Heaven in Michaelâs absence and fast-track the Apocalypse all over again, Balthasar pledged his allegiance to Castiel and promptly found a place to lay low on Earth. (Faked his own death. Sorry Cassie! Iâll help you if you find me, but otherwise Iâm staying out of the skirmishes.) Balthasar was content to align himself with Castiel no matter the fundamental motivation, as long as he could keep indulging in the pleasure Earth had to offer. He had not anticipated the Winchesters themselves calling upon him.
When Balthasar meets Luciferâs vessel - the Boy With the Demon Blood- he wonders if he is the man for whom Castiel defied the Plan. He honestly doubts it, but thereâs no way Castiel fell in love with the Michaelâs Sword, right? Still, he throws out a âWell then, go ask your boyfriendâ. He doesnât really get a reaction, but he holds out hope. Let it be this Abomination and not the Michaelâs sword. Castiel canât be that suicidal.
And then Balthasar meets The Righteous Man. And he sees that Castiel has branded his Soul, left his handprint on Michaelâs vessel. Oh Cassie, what have you done?
âThe one in the dirty trench coat, whoâs in love with you!â These humans, these Winchesters are so demanding, so rude, so unaware of everything Castiel has done for them, risked for them. And the Righteous Man- Dean- doesnât even seem to realize that Balthasar means what he says. And Balthasar- Castielâs Brother and friend- doesnât get to see if Castielâs love is returned, if he fell for a reason; because his wings are a scorched pattern on the ground and this time there is no illusion.
Will has always been able to read or, perhaps, feel his way past any poker face. That, coupled with his time as a cop in New Orleans, and finding creative ways to help Beau Graham keep food on the table, has lent Will Graham a distinct advantage in navigating the cards tables.
Perhaps it is this (and an Old Fashioned) that find Will inexplicably agreeing to strip poker at the annual BAU holiday party.
He folds early on into the first round, taking the opportunity to shed his tweed suit jacket - itâs stuffy and the whiskey from the open bar is warming him from the inside out.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter, inexplicably, is sitting at the table. Will watches him, swirling inadequate wine and looking all too delighted to have been roped into strip-poker by consequence of attending a holiday party with his not-patient. (Will insisted that he shouldnât feel the need to join the absurd game; he could mingle or even leave and Will would get a taxi. Hannibal told him it would be rude to decline.)
Beverly (eternally wise) opts to be the dealer and maintain her dignity. By the time Zeller is down to his briefs, he accepts his defeat and Jimmy offers him another drink as consolation.
Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is good at poker. Is there anything he isnât good at? Will muses, missing his tie, belt, both shoes, and his left sock. Will, however, has spent enough time analyzing Hannibalâs micro-expressions to spare himself from the same indignities Brian Zeller is recovering from with an alarming number of shots.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter is not more skilled at poker than Will. No. The only reason Will is wearing significantly less clothing than Hannibal is that Hannibal wears so many fucking clothes.
Will grits his teeth and examines his cards as Beverly places the flop. He is wearing his undershirt and slacks. Hannibal is sitting across from him, flush high on his cheeks from several glasses of wine, and to an unpracticed eye, appears to be fully dressed. Thus far, Hannibal has divested himself of his pocket square, his tie, his suit jacket, his watch, two leather brogues, and the cuff links from his right sleeve.
Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller have returned, looking rather flushed and disheveled, Will notes, to bear witness.
Will is in his boxers. Hannibal is in the process of removing his last sock garter. Will is fuming. He wants to launch over the table and rip that stupid silk shirt off of Hannibalâs torso. Huh. Where did That come from?
Beverly is placing the river and Will Graham glares mournfully at his pile of shed clothing.
âI raise you 500.â
Hannibalâs eyes briefly cast downward, to his cards and the garishly colored chips theyâve been playing with. His golden eyes hold a predatory glint. Will steels himself and prepares to don his birthday suit. Hannibal, uncharacteristically, chooses to take mercy on Will.
âAlas, Iâm afraid I must fold.â Hannibalâs face pinches theatrically as he sighs. His cards are placed neatly on the table in front of him, face down.
âThatâs it folks! Graham is keeping his pants tonight!!â Beverly announces. Something like disappointment flashes in Hannibalâs eyes. Surely regret at throwing the game - nothing more. Off comes the silk shirt, one mother of pearl button at a time.
Warmth pools in Willâs gut. Embarrassment, probably. And perhaps his fourth (?) drink of the evening. His skin prickles with gooseflesh as he collects his winnings (the privilege of putting his clothes back on). He glances up. Hannibal is still staring at him. Will is suddenly distinctly aware that his mouth is dry as sandpaper and shirt buttons are a touch too challenging for whiskey-addled senses.
When Will nearly keels over trying to shove his shoes back on Hannibal takes mercy on him for the second time that evening. He gestures for Will to sit and sinks to one knee. Gingerly, he places Willâs worn dress shoe on his foot. Like Cinderella, Willâs brain supplies unhelpfully. âPerhaps we should get you home,â Hannibal says, his low timbre cutting through Willâs musings on the Brothers Grimm and the tips of his feet staying intact in this version of the fairy tale.
âTake me home then.â Will quips, then immediately regrets his choice of words. Looking down reminds him that Hannibal is on his knees in front of him and Will hasnât bothered to properly zip up his pants yet. He thinks he hears someone wolf whistle. Probably Zeller.
The attention doesnât seem to bother the doctor. Hannibal just smiles a private, toothy grin. For some killers biting may be a fighting pattern, as much as sexual behavior. Will shakes his head, attempting to dispel the thought. Definitely too much whiskey for one night.
